It was Friday night and the place was busy, but thankfully the last couple seats at the end of the bar were free, and the baseball game was on the TV right above them. I sipped my beer and tried to appear like I was really into the Tigers so no one would take the stool next to me and try to talk. My plan worked for about ten minutes.
“Excuse me. Jack Valentini, right?”
I looked over my shoulder, and there she was. Up close, she was even prettier than she’d looked across the kitchen, which did nothing to help my mood. “Yeah?”
She smiled, revealing perfectly straight white teeth between those painted lips. “I thought that was you.” She held out a hand. “I’m Margot Lewiston. From Shine PR? We met today at Pete and Georgia’s?”
I didn’t want to touch her, but I saw no way to get out of it. I slipped my hand into hers. Her fingers were pale and slender, and mine wrapped around them easily. Our eyes met, and something strange happened in my chest—a hitch. I pulled my hand away. What the hell? Directing my attention back to the screen, I hoped she’d take the hint and leave me alone.
Nope.
“Is this seat taken? I’m dying for a cold drink.” Without waiting for me to answer, she slid onto it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw those legs extending from short shorts and ending at sandals with straps that twined up her legs like vines. I shifted nervously in my seat as the bartender approached her with a smile.
“Hi, what kind of gin do you have?” she asked. He rattled off some names, which she apparently did not find up to her standards. “Hm. How about a wine list?” He handed her one, and she looked it over briefly before sliding it toward me. “Any recommendations? I see they have some local wine. Should I try one?”
“Get whatever you want.” I tried not to look at her as she leaned toward me. Jesus, I could smell her perfume—something floral and summery and sexy and probably hundreds of dollars a fucking ounce. I held my breath.
She looked up at me a moment and then settled back on her stool. I exhaled.
“I can make a recommendation if you like,” offered the bartender, fucking college-age sap who probably thought he could get in her pants tonight if he poured her the right Riesling.
“That would be lovely,” she said, handing the menu back to him.
A few minutes later, she was sipping on a glass of local Pinot Noir, and I quickly finished my beer, feeling like I should get out of her presence sooner rather than later. Something about her made me uncomfortable. Well, not her exactly, but my body’s reaction to her.
“You don’t want me here, do you, Jack?” she said after I’d put a twenty on the bar.
“It’s not that. I’m just done with my beer. I’m ready to go.” I braved a glance at her.
“I don’t mean here in this bar, I mean here in this town. At the farm. Working for your family.” She smiled tightly. “It’s pretty obvious. No use denying it.”
I frowned as I pocketed the change and left a tip. “Look, it’s not personal. I just don’t think we need to spend money on publicity. There’s plenty of real things we need.”
“But publicity is a real need.” She shook her head. “What good will all your investment do if you don’t get the word out about your farm? The food you grow? The animals you raise? The benefits of eating and buying local from small, sustainable farms like yours? I spent the entire afternoon researching your practices, the costs and the benefits, the hazards of industrial farming. People don’t know about this stuff, Jack. You can help teach them.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off, a hand in the air.
“Don’t tell me. You don’t want to be a teacher. OK, fine. So you let me do it.” She touched her chest right below the pearl necklace she wore. (My mind immediately took an unauthorized detour.) “Or you let me map out the strategies for you, and family members can do it. Bottom line is, your brothers are right. Just from the initial research I’ve done so far, competition is only getting tougher and you need to set yourself apart.”
“And do what?” I crossed my arms over my chest, which seemed to distract her for a moment. She stared at it for a solid five seconds, her cheeks coloring slightly, before she answered, looking me in the eye again.
“What about agritourism? Have you ever considered that?”
“You mean whoring out my farm so people can traipse all over it and complain about the high price of my funny-looking tomatoes when the ones at Meijer are a lot cheaper and prettier? No.”
“It’s one of the fastest-growing segments of the travel industry!” she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. She was tenacious, I’d give her that. “An opportunity not only to educate and increase profits but also to offer an experience. There’s an entire generation of young people—which, by the way, is the most likely to be concerned about their food and more willing to pay more to get healthier options—who value experiences over things.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“I mean they prize doing things—and showing off pictures of themselves doing things—more than cars or jewelry or electronics. And they’re willing to pay to do them. So they come to the farm, have whatever amazing and authentic and delicious experiences we come up with, and then they post pictures of themselves on social media with a bunch of fun hashtags that make all their friends and followers go, ‘Hey! I want to do that or make that or eat that or buy that’ or whatever. Then they’re doing the PR work for you. For free!” Her smile lit up her face. “Doesn’t that sound good?”